By Sophie Strauss-Jenkins
I deleted Instagram because I can’t stand resenting my friends for living their lives. A year ago I could still blame my inertia on Maël. But now it’s getting old and trickling into excuses. My dog Bucket serves as a replacement for scrolling. I thought me and Bucket had a good thing going: he drops the ball and I throw it. Somehow he’s forgotten how to do this. If you’re of grumpy tendencies, a dog begging you to play ball, while refusing to give you said ball–that can drive you nuts. I point my best index at the ground. I scream “drop it”, and think “this is why grown men beat their children.” This rage is uncontrollable and totally warranted.
My best friend Sisi told me to get another ball so he’d drop the one in his mouth. That’s how you train them, she says. Bucket is an adult now, but I accept the advice. It works. Not every time, but it works. The sun is shining and we are bonding–until Bucket has both balls in his mouth and I want to beat his a**. My armpits sting as I’ve broken an anger-sweat. I tell him to go f*** himself and refuse to make eye-contact for the rest of the morning.
According to Instagram, Sisi was at some fun birthday party in some cool Berlin park last night. So she’s probably sleeping off ketamine and that’s why she’s not answering my texts. We recently agreed that she would carry my eggs, seeing as childbearing and birth are gross. Now I’m reconsidering.
After this morning, I’m 43% sure I’d hit my child at least once. And I’m certain I’d rock its screaming body too hard. Make its squishy brain bumper-car the tiny skull. What’s that called? Shaken baby?
I’d glimpsed my potential for child abuse years ago. I was a tween, babysitting five very rich Catholic kids. I dissociated, hypnotized by the drowning wails of someone else’s infant. When I came to, I was gripping the baby tightly, as one should with a chicken, not a newborn. I realized I’d wigged out. For repentance I let the baby chew on anything she wanted; bills, linens, dirt. Then I pictured myself at thirty– runny mascara, cigarette in mouth, baby on hip. I thought of Eminem’s mom making spaghetti.
At fourteen I recognized that I shouldn’t be a parent and thanked my own parents for not killing me, as they easily could have. Why isn’t there a version of parenting where the kids are more like cats? I think that might be grandparenting.
My antinatalism faltered when I hit twenty-six. Hormonally speaking, I now want a child of my flesh. We haven’t smoothed out the details, but I’m stoked that Sisi has offered up her Berliner womb. In this configuration, if I shake-the-baby too much, and it winds up different, I can blame it on her poor gestation. I’ve kept worse secrets.
Although he’d shared my resolve against parenting, I now wonder what mine and Maël’s kids would be like. Maël is my recent ex, and the one I keep blaming things on. He’s a big Instagram poster. He has 5781 followers. I have 676–less than my own mom. Maël’s posts remind me that he is succeeding all the time. Meanwhile, I am doing nothing except saying what I will do when I start doing things again. Maël does not post stories to say, “Ha! You’re a loser and my career is taking off without you!” But that feels like the intended takeaway.
Instead of texting him to restore my self-worth, I post that I am leaving IG for a while, green heart emoji. I am aware that this makes me seem wise, like I’m getting in touch with myself. In the mere 8 hours that I’ve posted said story, I’ve been on the app twice. The manic urge to log on, compounded with the intentionally disastrous internet version, is stronger than two shots of espresso. I do not feel calm afterward. I keep a mental note of whose stories I’ve watched since publicly broadcasting my departure. These people know that I am a fraud. They see me pathetically spying on their fun activities, like a younger unloved sibling during a highschool birthday party. Just like Bucket, when he pokes his head through the bathroom door to spy on me pooping.
Of course, Maël is among the few who know, as he is the reason I left Instagram and the reason that I cannot stay away. If I had his children they would be cool and queer. They wouldn’t be smarter than my and Sisi’s offspring, but they’d be cooler. Since Maël would do the beating and psychological blackmail, I could secure a position as the nice loving parent.
In Sisi’s soccer-mom-violin-lessons home, I’d be the basketcase. Sisi meditates, eats grilled eggplant, and thinks before she speaks; I however, am addicted to McDonald’s and can’t play fetch without blowing my top. Another reason to reconsider: Do I want my parenting held up against hers?
I’d never considered the perks of co-parenting with an a**hole, but they do indeed exist.
Sophie Strauss-Jenkins was raised between France and the U.S. After a stint as a social worker, they moved to Paris to join the movement as a union organizer.
Hot Pot Magazine 